They would be a metaphor for everything Ashton thought he’d never do, never accomplish, but was doing all the same. For his mother, who told him that he’d never amount to anything, that art—any art—wasn’t sustainable, wasn’t a “real” course of study or basis for a career. That magic was a waste of time and energy. For his father, who disappeared into the night without bothering to say anything to Ashton at all. For himself and his own insecurities, for the ways he let the world convince him that he wasn’t good enough but still somehow managed to prove himself wrong.
Suffice it to say, inking those wings onto his skin was averybig deal.
Design-wise, they were meant to stretch across the entirety of Ashton’s back, spilling over onto his shoulders and biceps, the feathers individually drawn and then filled in a deep, inky, blue-black shade. Magic would help the color appear to be reflecting the light, and each feather would shift and shimmer, creating an ombré effect with any movement.
Whitaker was confident. Hesaidso, repeatedly reassuring Ashton that he had the complicated magical component worked out completely. That when the piece was finished, Ashton would be able to flex his muscles and the wings would appear live in the air behind him. He said they’d be strong and fierce and glowing, a testament to Ashton’s character, his internal strength, and frankly, a walking billboard for both his and Whitaker’s artistic strength and skill.
Recounting this part of the story is rough, and Ashton has to break, sucking in a haggard breath and glancing away, shifting against the couch in what he hopes is a discreet motion. He’s not trying to be rude, but it’s simply too difficult to maintain eye contact with Link while simultaneously sharing this piece of his history. Being vulnerable is one thing, but Ashton’s not actually interested in bursting into tears, and Link's thoughtful, understanding eyes with their adorable crinkles at the cornersmightjust be the thing that puts him over the edge.
Fortunately (or something), that can only happen if he keeps looking at Link's lovely face, so the solution is clearly to turn slightly to the right and focus on repouring his drink, then play with the rim of the glass where it rests in his lap. All the while, Link sits quietly, patient and still, only responding by reaching out to squeeze Ashton’s knee briefly before taking his hand away again. There’s no pity, no judgment or demand, just the right amount of solace, offered without expectation. It’s appreciated.
“So, anyway,” Ashton continues, clearing his throat before launching back into sharing his memories of that day. In his peripheral vision, Link nods for him to continue.
It was a Saturday.
It was raining outside. Ashton’s socks had gotten wet on the short walk from his truck into the shop, and the rubbing of his dress shoes against wet, irritated skin led him to consider whether it would be inappropriate to go shoeless.
He left them on.
The shop smelled like lemon disinfectant. Whitaker’s regular cleaner had been through earlier that morning, so everything was scrubbed and shiny. Ashton arrived with coffee for them both, despite the hour. Whitaker’s fancy, eight-dollar latte went mostly untouched, which was irksome. In retrospect, it was all so normal, so mundane.
As for the man himself, Whitaker had been quiet, focused, but he was often that way when working, so Ashton didn’t think much of it. In the entirety of the six-plus hours he sat in Whitaker’s chair, they exchanged a total of maybe ten words. Ashton came well-prepared for such a long session, spending most of it napping and then later, with earbuds in, streaming a TV show on his phone. Doing so served to both entertain himself and to ward off the misophonia, the amplified physical discomfort that came from the tattoo machine buzzing non-stop in his ear, moving repeatedly over already-sore skin. The weather did nothing to drown that out.
It will be worth it,he told himself, somewhere around hour five when the pain was approaching unbearable. Whitaker didn’t offer him a break, though, and he was the onedoingthe work, so with a little grit and willpower, Ashton managed to stick it out and power through.
By the time Whitaker finished, it was long past sunset, taking the sky from ash gray to jet black. As such, the other two artists who were hanging around earlier in the day were already gone. Thinking back on the whole series of events, Whitakerdidseem oddly smug, strangely self-satisfied when he sat back on his stool and pronounced the tattoo complete. In the moment, Ashton chalked that up to being pleased with the outcome of a difficult piece of work.
He wasn’t wrong.
At Whitaker’s word, Ashton practically leaped from the chair. He could barely contain his excitement, pulse racing at the thought of seeing his beautiful wings on display for the first time, both on his skin and in the air. He was so sure that it would be one of the most impressive pieces he had ever seen.
The rain began to pour harder overhead, the lightning flashing and thunder clapping, maybe in warning. He didn’t pay attention.
If nothing else, the righteous pride on Whitaker’s face as they approached the mirrors together should have clued him in that something was wrong, but without context, Ashton didn’t even realize that was what it was.
No, as Whitaker walked him between the two-mirror set up in the shop’s hallway, constructed for just such an occasion, all Ashton could feel wasthrilled.
“Flex,” Whitaker commanded, smirking as Ashton stood shirtless and staring at his reflection in the mirror, barely giving him a moment to glance over the ink decorating his skin.
“Go on, flex.”
Ashton frowned. There was something glaringly wrong, that much he could tell from the jump. The outline of the wings was there, yes—bone and muscle, anyway. Anatomically, the wings existed, but they werewrong.Where there should have been blue-black feathers, there was damaged skin. Burn marks, fractured alulas, everything misshapen and sad-looking. These were bruised, broken appendages that appearednothinglike what Ashton had envisioned, what he designed.
“What… ?” was all he could manage at first, the air stolen from his lungs as he tried to make sense of the mess marring his back. Whitaker didn’t answer, just looked on placidly, head tilting coldly to one side.
“Flex,” Whitaker repeated, arms crossing tightly over his chest, and it was then that Ashton slowly began to understand what was happening. His blood pounded angrily inside his head in time with the rain against the roof, but at the time, his mind refused to accept the truth.
Surely,he thought,Whitaker wouldn’t do something so deliberately hurtful, so elaborately deceitful—would he?
Therehadto be some other explanation, something he was missing. That possibility was beyond cruel—too much to consider. Wracking his brain for options, Ashton half-panicked and settled on the idea that he was simply getting ahead of himself. Perhaps this was all an elaborate illusion, something Whitaker created to surprise him. Perhaps the design would transform fully into the wings he was expecting with a little concentration and a simple flex.
That must be it,he thought.
Presently, Ashton explains this theory to Link using the example of the evolving tattoo Sam created for Remy as a convention demo. He describes the way the roses grew from a barren tangle of nothing to a host of full blooms under Remy’s attentions and how thrilled Remy seemed about it.
“Thatmusthave been it, had to be,” Ashton explains, recounting his own desperate feelings inside that moment, his frantic and terrible need for reality tonotbe what it so obviously was.
In his peripheral vision, Link winces and stays silent, giving Ashton all the time he needs to continue, not pushing when his one long sip of whiskey turns into three. Though he doesn’t speak, Link does reach out an arm, draping it across the back of the sofa like hewantsto touch Ashton and provide comfort but isn’t entirely sure that it would be welcomed. Any other time, Ashton would have been happy to pause and correct Link's misgivings, but he fears that if he stops now, he’ll never get this out.
